


If I Did, You'd be the One

by wheredwellthe_brave_atheart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, F/M, Ice Cream Shop fluff, because why the hell not, these two deserve some fluff what can I say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart/pseuds/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow and Sansa Stark - professional idiots in love, making their merry way through a modern universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby, You Drive Me So Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> All characters borrowed gracefully from George R.R. Martin, HBO, etc. 
> 
> Due entirely to season six, the Jonsa fever has hit me, and this is part of the result! Hope you guys enjoy.
> 
> Work title from "Gun Song" by the Lumineers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon get caught in a storm.
> 
> Chapter title from "Warpath" by Ingrid Michelson.

They're walking back from the movies, hand in hand, along a side path through the park to where he'd left the car, when the summer winds shift and they get caught in a rainstorm. 

The clouds open up and let loose a torrent of rain - Sansa shrieks and dashes ahead of him, jacket raised like a shield above her streaming hair, red shining like a flag through the gloom. 

"Jon!" she cries, beckoning him across the empty field, and he laughs and ambles after her, until he's drenched to the bone. 

As he catches up to her, he spreads his arms and grins, squinting against the downpour. 

"What's a little summer shower to Lady Winter?" he teases, the childhood nickname slipping from his mouth unbidden, and she scrunches up her nose like she does when she has to agree with him. The childish expression on her face conjures a sudden vision of her at age eight, stomping her feet in frustration as he and Robb ran ahead of her in their games. Then her at thirteen, scowling out the window at them as they smoked cheap cigarettes with Theon on the Stark balcony one night when her parents were at a play. Then he remembers Sansa at seventeen, the first year he went away to university, and the way she looked in a white sundress the day he came home for the summer, the shock he felt at realizing how much of a woman she'd become. 

Now, she peeks out from under her makeshift umbrella and gazes up into the heavens, blue eyes matching the raindrops that splatter against her pretty face. He can count the beads clinging to her eyelashes. She sticks out her tongue to catch the falling rain. 

She giggles, wiping the water from her face. "Snow tastes much better," she says, locking her eyes on him, and she's so matter-of-fact, standing there looking for all the world like some ancient goddess of nature, her long hair clinging to the curves of her body, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed pink and perfect, so he closes the distance between them. He curls an arm around her soft waist and pulls her tight. Her jacket is dropped in favor of looping her arms up around his neck. 

He kisses her rain-slicked mouth, enveloping her body in an effort to shield her from the weather. He nearly groans at the press of her body against his, as her fingers wind in his soaking hair. She steps between his spread legs, fitting their hips together like puzzle pieces. 

She sighs into his mouth, warm breath combating the cool rain. "Snow really does taste best," she laughs, and he smirks against her lips. 

She melts against him, hand falling to his chest, fingers slack. "Jon Snow," she breathes, head resting against his shoulder. 

His kisses the top of her head, a benediction. "That's my name, Sansa Stark," he chuckles, smoothing her dripping hair. "Had you forgotten?"

She shakes her head against him. "Never," she sighs, arms wrapping around his waist. 

He smiles, and tugs at her hand. "Come on, sweet girl," he says, leading her onward across the field to his parked car. "Let's get inside before we catch our death, yeah?"

She laces her fingers in his and they streak like wolves to his car, whooping now at the chill of the rain, skidding on the damp grass. By the time he's unlocked the doors, they're so soaked that they slide into the seats, and Sansa begins to wring her hair out onto her lap. Their laughter fades in the quiet of the vehicle, until they're left in a comfortable silence, the rain pattering all around them. 

"Sanctuary," she sighs, flopping back against the seat and smiling at him. 

He snorts, shaking the water from his hair. "A castle amid the storm," he jokes, gesturing at the black interior with derisive hands. 

She scrunches her face again, laughing softly, and again he's reminded of how long he's known her, how lucky he is to be with her, now. 

As he watches her, she tucks her legs up and curls into her chair, shivering slightly. 

"Are you cold?" he asks worriedly, stroking her arm to ward off the chill. Her mother would never forgive him if he brought her home with pneumonia. He twists away, reaching for the keys in the ignition. "Here, let's get going, I'll turn on the heat-"

He's stopped by her hand coming up to prevent the motion, her slender fingers wrapping deftly around his wrist. 

"Jon," she murmurs, sighing his name like before, and when he meets her gaze her eyes are wide, a blush blooming like summer roses across her face. 

Sansa leans over the divide, lips parted, and he meets her eagerly, cradling her jaw with his free hand, brushing his thumb across the smooth skin of her cheekbone as she guides his other hand to her breast. 

Jon pulls back from the kiss slightly - "Now?" he asks, uncertain, but she nods fervently, deepening the kiss. 

"Now," she breathes, swinging her leg over to straddle him, their wet clothes clinging to each other. Her skin is cool and damp, and he moans as she rolls her hips against him, the heat of her core apparent through the light cotton of her dress. He cups her breast and circles her tight nipple with his thumb, matching the rock of her pelvis. She bites his bottom lip, hard, when his other hand grips the curve of her ass, his palm wide and hot against her damp thigh. 

"Oh, god, Jon-" she gasps, diving down to kiss along his throat, across his jaw, under his ear. "Oh, Jesus Christ, God, Jon-" 

His eyes have basically rolled back into his head as the tip of her tongue finds his earlobe, as she grazes it with her teeth, but he manages to chuckle at her proclamations. "Forgot you used to be religious," he teases, picturing how she'll roll her eyes and pout her lips, protesting. 

But instead she takes his face in both hands, fingers spread along his jawline, and kisses him deeply, knees digging into the side of his hips as she grinds down onto the stiffness in his jeans. 

She breaks the kiss and looks him in the eye. "I don't know," she whispers, gently, then her eyes widen as she tries to clarify. "I just mean...You make me...I don't know," she blushes again, biting her kiss-reddened bottom lip with perfect teeth. "You make me see the world differently," she confesses. "I'm not so sure about everything, any more." 

His chest heaves, blood pounding as her hair sweeps in a damp curtain around him while he shifts up to kiss her again. His voice is rough as he murmurs into her mouth. "I'm sure about you," he says, hands on her hips. 

She smiles, teeth clacking against his clumsily. "I'm sure about us," she promises, and she takes his belt in her hands, quickly shimmying his pants down as far as the seat will allow. He moans with relief as she trails her fingers down his abdomen to the waistband of his shorts, her hand slipping low to grab him under his boxers, stroking him with soft hands until he's panting, mouth on the tops of her breasts above the scoop of her dress. 

She makes a high, keening sound when he pushes her skirt up over her hips, and his fingers drag aside the seam of her panties to find her core, so hot and wet against his knuckles. By the time he remembers, they're both desperate, panting, and it's all he can do to jerk his head and grunt out: "Glove compartment-", knowing she'll make the right connection. 

She twists her torso like a gymnast, back arching until he is hypnotized by the long, smooth expanse of her neck as her fingers grapple hastily for the latch, and he's sucking on her pulse point under her jaw while she fishes out a condom, tearing the package as she leans back into him. His body jerks against her as she rolls it down the length of him in one frustratingly steady motion, and she laughs throatily, no doubt at the expression on his face, which he thinks must be some comical mixture of outrage and worship. 

Although, that basically sums up his dynamic with Sansa, if he's being completely honest. 

She takes pity on him and manoeuvres herself gracefully to get seated onto him, and his heartbeat increases even more as he is fully sheathed inside her. She grips the headrest above him and they find a frantic rhythm, his hips jerking up as she crashes down like waves on a beach. He takes in her shining hair curling with the humidity in the small space, her eyes screwed shut and brow furrowed slightly, her bow lips parted in a silent moan, and he whispers her name as he comes, her eyes opening exactly as he releases. She shudders and writhes in his arms as her climax follows his, slowing her movements until she relaxes onto his torso, sighing. 

Their bodies are damp with both the rain and sweat, now, and she hums contentedly, her mouth pressed into his shoulder. 

He kisses the top of her head, again, and strokes her hair languidly. "Rain's stopped," he announces quietly, peering through the now-foggy windows. 

"Then the castle served its purpose," Sansa mumbles into his t-shirt, before easing herself off him and settling in her seat. 

He cleans up, silently grateful for the garbage can in the backseat of his car, and buckles his pants as she clicks her seatbelt into place. He glances over at her, but she's looking out the windshield now, eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

"Where to, my lady?" he asks, only half-kidding. 

She smiles, and shrugs. "Anywhere," she says, simply.

Jon breathes evenly and fixes his eyes on the road before them.


	2. Queen's Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's boyfriend looks out of place at the ice cream shop.

Jon looked so adorably out of place when Sansa took him to Winterfell, the trendy new ice cream place Margarey had raved about for weeks to Sansa. His particular brand of brooding didn't exactly blend with the polka-dot pastels adorning the walls, or the cheery signs for overpriced ice cream boasting flavors like "Queen's Dream", and "Snowfall", or the general hipster crowd packed into twisting lines around diner-style tables. Sansa hid a smile behind her hand when they reached the till and he followed her order for a small strawberries-and-cream cone by leaning close over the counter with a furrowed brow and a confused expression, requesting "Uh, just a regular plain vanilla cone, please?" 

The perky server asked if he wanted a litany of sprinkles, nuts, syrups, and candies at a rapid-fire pace, and her boyfriend's face scrunched up even more as he quickly muttered an answer in the negative. 

They paid and shuffled along the line to wait for their order, and Sansa let loose a giggle, bumping her shoulder against his. 

"Relax," she teased, when his expression melted and he cracked a smile. "You looked ready to dive for cover."

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. "I dunno why it has to be so complicated, is all," he mumbled, glancing again at the pageantry of the shop. 

Sansa sighed with relief when their order arrived, both of them stretching on their toes to claim their treats over the tall counter. 

They maneuvered their way through the thronging crowd out the door, bell jangling cheerily overhead as they exited, and Sansa plunged her tongue into her smooth pink ice cream. 

"It's all about appealing to their audience," she explained through a mouthful of it. "People like stuff to feel special, and unique, I guess. Like everything is more than just regular, every-day life." 

The summer sun beat down as they walked along the sidewalk, blue sky blazing with heat, and Sansa was distracted by the drip of her ice cream down the cone, coming perilously close to her wrist, so she licked the sticky-sweet melt of it off her skin as best she could. 

When she squinted back at Jon through the halo formed around his dark head by the sun, he was gazing at her thoughtfully. 

"What?" she asked, glancing worriedly at her clothes. "Did I spill?" 

Then suddenly, he laughed that big booming laugh of his, the one she fell in love with when she first began to realize how much more there was to this quiet, stoic friend of Robb's, so much more to him then she'd realized. 

"What, what, what?" she pestered, bouncing on her toes around him as he chuckled still. "Jon-" she whined, until he stopped short and dragged her close by the waist, so their hips pressed together and her nose nearly landef in his ice cream. 

He shook his head. "No, you didn't spill, sweet girl," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "It's just, that thing you said, about everything being 'more' - well," and now his voice dropped to a murmur, and he averted his gaze. "I just thought, that's how you make me feel, I guess." 

Sansa practically swooned right there on the curb. Her knees felt like soft-serve, she was so taken aback.

"Jon," she cooed, as his face flushed. "What a softie," she teased, hoping he would blush and stammer some more. 

Her efforts don't go unrewarded: 

"Hey!" he protested, and before Sansa could react he smeared some of his ice cream right on the tip of her nose. 

She shrieked and Jon darted smartly out of range, jogging ahead while she stood frozen in shock, laughing. 

"Come and get me, then!" he called back to her, and she raced to him, sandals slapping the pavement. He caught her from behind, wrapping his arms around her middle, swinging her until she let out a shout of protest. 

He settled her down on the sidewalk, and she twisted in his embrace until they were standing nose-to-nose. With precise, deliberate action, she swiped the creamy vanilla off her face, licking her finger with satisfaction, holding Jon's suddenly-intent gaze. 

She giggled as he swooped down and kissed her, their lips tasting like ice cream.


	3. For Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa just wants to see Jon stand still, for a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea what this is - it's weirdly angsty while being total fluff (like dialouge-and-present-tense-and-overuse-of-adjectives fluff), but ah, well, have some random modern Jon and Sansa summertime driving, night-owl, restless for the future adventures. 
> 
> Chapter title from Joni Mitchell's "Urge for Going" - Modern!Jon is a hipster and as such is required by law to love her.

Tap. Tap.

He blinks blearily, tearing his tired eyes from the harsh light of his laptop, the shadows in his room swirling into focus.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He groans and rolls his stiff shoulders, shifting his vertebrae. He’s over-caffeinated and under-rested, but he can feel a smile that’s just for her start to creep along his face.

He opens the window quickly, pressing his face against the screen – and, sure enough, there’s Sansa, standing in his tiny walkway with a fistful of stones and a grin on her face. 

Jon scoffs with amazed disbelief. "What in all the bloody hells are you doing?” he hisses down.

She laughs. “Just what a girl wants to hear.”

“You know what I mean,” he sighs. “It’s two in the morning, San, what are you doing here?”

“Fetching you, of course,” she grins. “Took you long enough.”

He rubs his palms over his face, clearing the fatigue from his eyes; he sometimes underestimates just how stubborn she actually is.

“This is all terribly clichéd, you know,” he says, feigning indifference, his smile spreading slowly across his face all the same.

“I think you mean terribly romantic,” she tosses back, and he knows she’s trying to make him laugh. “Anyway, it’s all your fault, for being so terribly noble. And don't think I don't know how hard you've been working," she adds, doe eyes opening even wider, pleading. "To go after your degree, to get your job back, to get out of this town, and everything. But you've had the scrunched-forehead look for days, it’s been driving me crazy – and I couldn’t sleep tonight, and I miss you, and I want to see you relax." She takes a breath, and raises her chin in a challenge. “So. Are you coming?”

His thoughts jump anxiously towards his laptop, to the endless list of things he wants, needs, to achieve. How his skin has been itching, lately, wanting to get out, to get going, to move on with his real life and make something of himself, for her. Since she got her acceptance to uni at the beginning of the summer, he's been fighting off the feeling like he's losing her. He's been drowning himself in pursuing his own future, desperate to catch up with her. To prove to himself, to the whole world, that he's ready to stand by Sansa's side. 

But he takes a breath and calms his heartbeat at the innocent bounce of Sansa's excited feet on the pavement below. 

She's still here, with him. They haven't gone anywhere, yet. 

He sighs, pretending to deliberate. "I dunno...Are you driving?" Her car is parked on the street, he knows, but he likes to watch her face turn red when she remembers last week’s incident in his truck. 

True to form, she flushes an endearing shade of pink. “Yes – but I could leave you here, if you’d prefer,” she sniffs, hands on her hips; the stance of a chief. 

Laughter leaps out of him as he moves away from the window. He hops into a pair of jeans and yanks a sweater over his head, grabbing his keys and stuffing his feet into shoes on the way downstairs. Two minutes later, he’s pulling the rusty main door of the building shut behind him and feels the warm night air on his face. He saunters over to where she’s now sitting on the metallic-blue hood of her car, staring up at the sky.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and he holds up a pack of gum he’d snatched from the kitchen, offering her a piece. She nods in acceptance and hops down from the car. He tosses her the pack, which she fails to catch.

“You’re a mess,” he teases. She scoops it up, rolling her eyes spectacularly when she recovers, and twirls the car keys around her finger, the metal flashing. “Well, come on, then," she giggles. "Get in.”

He folds his legs into the passenger side of her car, rolling the window down and turning on the stereo as she starts the ignition. The sound tears through the dormant air on his street, and he adds to it by scrolling through the tracks of her playlist before settling on something quiet of Joni Mitchell’s.

She scoffs at his choice of music. “Hipster,” she coughs, her wrist balanced atop the steering wheel, copper hair streaming back in the wind.

“It’s on your phone,” he reminds her, as guitar chords float out of the speakers. “Don’t even pretend like you don’t love her.”

“I keep it for you,” she says, and either way, he’s happy.

They drive in warm silence, and he props his elbow up on the open window to rest his head against his hand. She turns the music up until he can feel the beat under his skin, and he watches as the houses turn to open fields in the half-light. 

Clearly tonight’s destination is not the Stark home, the big house on the hill he spent so much time in as a child, and he can’t help but be a little apprehensive. He hasn't yet managed to shake the urge to keep a wary eye on her, to protect Robb's baby sister, whether it be from douchebag jocks with the name Lannister, or any of the standard, heartbreaking shit life throws at the most hopeful people. 

"Where are we headed?" he asks, but she just rolls her eyes again and bats his hand away from the map on her phone. “Relax; I just want to go to the river now that it’s finally warm out.”

She pulls off the road onto a smaller dirt path, flicking her turn signal even though there hasn’t been a single car around for at least fifteen minutes.

The car crunches along the path until he can spot water through the mess of trees. They crawl to a halt, and the lights turn off with the engine, leaving them in a sudden flood of darkness.

“So…we getting out, then?” he asks, when she doesn’t unlock the doors right away.

“No,” she replies, mockingly. “I thought we’d wait here in silence for a bit before driving off the end of the earth, instead.”

“People think I make up how dramatic you are, you know. They never expect Ned Stark's pretty oldest daughter to be..."

She unbuckles her seatbelt and primly twists her hair into a braid her over her shoulder, shifting her torso to face him. She lifts one perfect eyebrow in a challenge. "To be...?"

Jon shrugs, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "To be...you, I guess. Crazy, stubborn, wonderful you."

She hums a sigh and catches his hand, pressing a quick kiss to his rough palm. 

"Come on," she says, letting go of his hand to climb eagerly out of the car. She tugs him down the hill imperiously, like she would when they were children playing Knights and princesses, and she would lead the game with an authority no eight-year-old should possess. 

They cut a jagged path through the swathes of the tall early-summer grass. He lets her pull him along, but still presses a kiss to her knuckles as they tumble breathlessly towards the waiting river.

They spread a blanket from the backseat of her car in their favourite spot - under the large, ghost-pale birch tree along the water’s edge – it smells musty and he can see its dust motes mingling with the night air, getting caught up in her hair. He watches Sansa as if she’s part of a film; lighting up his silver screen with busy hands and hidden wit, and elegant sandals she’s kicking off her feet, impatient to feel the water on her toes.

She notices his gaze. "What?” she asks, and a squint and a pout form on her face. She flicks water at him playfully. “Speak!” she commands, teasing, her voice skipping over the water like a smooth stone. 

Sansa Stark, bringing such warmth and levity and joy to his stoic life. He thinks of finding her out his window, how she pleaded and blinked her blue eyes and saved him from another night of restless sleep, worrying about the future. 

He thinks of summer jobs and acceptances, of apprenticeships professors and the whole world waiting for them. 

Somehow, with her beside him, the future doesn't seem as insurmountable. 

"Jon," she murmurs, waving a hand in front of his face. 

He laughs, nudging her shoulder with his, and admits: “I don’t want to leave.”

Sansa smiles. Then, her head rests on his shoulder, her breath against his collarbone.

“Let’s not, then. In this moment, forever, we're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this worked!


	4. All Was Golden in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer had hit, and the Starks, in turn, had hit the beach. 
> 
> Ridiculously short chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well apparently I've been too overwhelmed with amazing Jon/Sansa fics to update my own (plus, wow does summer fly by!), but here's a tiny peak of the Starks at the beach :)
> 
> Chapter title from Panic! at the Disco - Pretty Odd is the ultimate summer album.

Jon hefted the red-and-white cooler from the trunk of the car, heavy with juice boxes, water, and beer all smothered in an already-melting pile of ice. He shouldered it awkwardly as he slammed the hatch of his truck down. Robb, Jeyne, and Theon grabbed bags overflowing with sunscreen and spare pairs of sunglasses, while Arya stubbornly struggled to hoist a pile of camp chairs. Rickon brandished a plastic shovel and bucket aloft like a knight would raise his sword and shield, and Sansa maneuvered Bran's crutches into position on the boardwalk. It was official - summer had hit, and the Starks, in turn, had hit the beach.

Jon lagged behind the rest of the eager crew, as they surged over the sand to plant their towels and chairs firmly in what Bran insisted was "the prime spot". He adjusted his grip on the cooler and pushed his sticky curls impatiently off his forehead - 'Snow is not made for summer', his mother's teasing voice echoed in his head, as the sun beat down on his shoulders. 

He managed to put the cooler down by their mess of towels, looking like an ancient pirate's treasure chest buried in the sand, and he pushed his sunglasses up his nose. 

Jon sucked in a breath as Sansa stood and stretched up on her toes, pulling her cotton dress over her head. She emerged with her red hair tumbling down onto her shoulders, skin gleaming in the sun. Her bikini, by all rights, should have been illegal, for the havoc it suddenly wreaked on all of Jon's motor functioning. He felt sure his brain was moving in slow-motion. 

Jon had to admit there were definitely some compensations for braving the heat.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating this fairly regularly, as long as the muse survives. Let me know what you guys think!


End file.
